


The Future Starts Slow

by Sky_kiss



Series: The Bear and the Phoenix [2]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Angst, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Family Feels, Father-Daughter Relationship, Firebending & Firebenders, Fluff, Iroh is the best brother, One man's journey from mediocre dad, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Politics, Pre-Series, Preseries, To Absolute Trash Dad, eventually, ignores the comics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-25 17:36:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14383632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sky_kiss/pseuds/Sky_kiss
Summary: When they first marry, Ozai promises they will rule together. He will be crowned Fire Lord. She will give him heirs, more powerful than any before them. She will sit at his side and together they will be unstoppable.  As the years pass, Ursa begins to doubt that future. The arrival of their children only compounds these worries.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> They were getting too chummy in my other story. And it felt a bit like I needed to flesh out my view of their marriage. I wanted to express like. The tone of different sections of their life.

They will rule together, he says.

Ozai’s voice is thicker than usual, colored by wine, by sex, by simple exhaustion. The scope of a royal wedding had escaped her until she’d stood beside her groom, the majority of Azulon’s court peering at them. It had been an exhausting affair, tedious in ways she’d prefer to forget, and the festivities had long overstayed their welcome. That they escaped before dawn is a small miracle, owed primarily to Iroh. Her husband scrapes blunt nails down the length of her spine, feathering over the rise of her ass before he allows himself to settle. She grumbles in response, her face tucked in the crook of his neck, their legs tangled together. She wants to sleep; she’s groggy and dreamy, half cognizant when she speaks. 

“Some would call that treason, dear.”

“Some would,” he mumbles, and a shiver chases through her, “Not you.”

Her new husband smirks, leaning in to catch her lower lip between his teeth and if every inch of her didn’t ache it’d leave her longing for him. Instead, she makes some mewling sound, “That’s a bold assumption.”

“The correct one,” she thinks it’s much too late ( or too early; she can just makes out a blush of light on the horizon) for such conversations. But Ozai is a man ruled by obsession and she is the joining point of all those desires. She is beauty and cunning and power and a partner in his ambitions. Ursa sighs, reaching up to smooth the errant hair out of his face. “Look at you,” his touch trails up over her ribs, tracing the underside of her breast. There is a mad quality to his eyes, something ugly, something she cannot quantify. It is gone as quickly as it’s come. She blinks and there’s only lust, an undeniable fondness. Feverish heat radiates from his skin, licking across her own, “You are no princess, Ursa.”

She feels light headed. His chambers, their chambers, are illuminated only by the moon and stars. He is more stark in that silvery light, the high angles of his face heavily exaggerated. She presses her palm flat over his heart, “Then what would you call me, husband?”

He does not answer immediately. Even Ozai is not fool enough to voice some treasons. He paints them on her skin instead, slipping down her body, pressing open mouthed kisses to her belly. Her flesh burns with every pass of his tongue. Ursa closes her eyes, tracking the lines, committing them to memory, two words, eight letters. She bites her lip to keep from groaning.

His queen.

She kisses him, hands tangled in his hair, legs a vice around his hips. She whispers in his ear as he starts to thrust, pretty visions of their future. Fire Lord Ozai, beloved, strong, and no one will question his legitimacy again. She will give him sons, more powerful than any before them. She will sit at his side and together they will be unstoppable.  
_____

Ozai does not hide his ambitions well. The second prince is content to sulk about the palace, gossiping with Zhao when the man is around. He will tease (though the word sounds too friendly) his elder brother’s eccentricities. He will push himself to his limits and beyond, all in the name of personal glory. 

He is different with her. No softer, no less jaded but...different. 

She strokes her fingers through his hair, listening to the even sounds of his breathing. Ozai sleeps poorly. She wonders if the insomnia is genetic (Azulon sleeps precious little and even dear Iroh seems to contend with the heavy bags rimming his eyes) or a result of his rigorous schedule. He had kept to his study for the better part of the day, writing letters to each of the Fire Nation’s generals. 

“You’ll tear the hair from my scalp if you keep tugging like that, Ursa.” 

The words are badly slurred, tickling against the rise of her breasts. He nuzzles into her skin, the movement boyish, so young that her breath catches momentarily. She brings her other hand up, working the knot out of his hair as gently as she can, “It’s tangled, dear. I can only do so much.” 

He grumbles, something about not asking for her touch, not being a housepet. It’s amusing and distressing all at once. The caustic quality of his wit just isn’t there and he’s drifting off again before he’s finished. 

She wonders, sometimes, if Ozai is suited for this life. If he wouldn’t be happier anywhere else, removed from his family's expectations. 

It is a pointless consideration and so she holds him to her instead, staring up into the darkness until she eventually sleeps.  
_____

The servant girl remains by the door, wringing her hands together, tracing the threshold with one toe but never pushing into Ozai’s sanctum. Her attention flicks from doorway to doorway as if frightened the Prince will materialize, some grim spirit, an ill omen.

“So this is where the Prince spends his days.”

Ursa feigns surprise, as if it isn’t something she’s known all along. Both of the Princes have their privates offices. Iroh has two. One for receiving guests and one for his own private meditations. Ozai has only this room, small in comparison. She knows he guards it religiously, knows that it is one of the few places in the palace untouched by his Father’s machinations.

Odds say he would not want her here.

But there is something heady in this little act of rebellion, venturing where no other has before. Ursa takes in the decor (understated, in contrast to his usual tastes), the rows of books lining the far wall. Some are historical. More than she would expect are…fantastical. Ursa smiles, biting the inside of her cheek as she plucks one from his collection. “The Tragedy of the Phoenix.” Somehow it seems too apt. She replaces it without so much as a cursory scan.

“You are entitled to your own offices, ladyship.”

Ursa shakes her head, dark hair loose about her shoulders, chin held high. The heavy fabric of her robes trails behind her. She is proud and beautiful, dragging the tips of her fingers across her husband’s desk. Ozai’s work space is immaculately neat, the antithesis of his older brother’s quarters. The room is scented with wine and ash and spice; she finds the mixture heady. She hums to herself.

“What is wrong with my husband’s study, Xiang? Why should I not make use of it?”

There’s a knife embedded in the far edge of the desk, the upper left corner. She plucks it from the surface, surprised when the wood does not splinter. The craftsmanship exceeds anything she has ever seen. It is obsidian or carbon, the monotony of black broken up with golden filigree, delicate rubies. ‘Gaudy’ is the first word that comes to mind, followed quickly by ‘impractical.’ Both are well suited to her husband.

“Yes, Xiang,” the low purr of Ozai’s voice fills the study. The girl falls to her knees immediately, fumbling for an apology as she prostrates herself. Her husband sneers, giving a tug on the hem of his robe to keep her from grasping at the fabric. “Answer your princess.”

He steps in behind her, one hand folding over Ursa’s hip. Too low for propriety; she arches one brow, flicking her attention down. A strange pride fills her, watches as his fingers more thoughtlessly against her skin. It is a low, rolling, pressure, never allowing her to acclimate to his presence.

Xiang’s voice is shaking badly, “I meant no disrespect, Prince Ozai. Only that…you have never…in the past…” her fingers curl inward, digging into her palms, “Forgive me, my Prince.”

Ursa answers first, waving her hand, “You are forgiven, Xiang.” The girl’s eyes are bright with tears and she thinks for a moment she might lunge for them, sob into their robes. She keeps her voice soft, motioning to the door, “Please, leave us now.”

“Impertinent woman,” he mumbles when the door finally clicks shut. There’s no venom behind the statement, only some breed of curiosity. His teeth scrape along the column of her throat. For a prince, he is quite nearly feral when they are alone, all teeth, woefully tactile.

“Someone has to save the servants from your temper, love.”

“Of course,” he smirks against her skin, clutching her to his side. The air feels stifling with him near, superheated and steadily climbing,“The girl was right. This place is sacred to me. Private.”

The dagger is still in her hand. She forgets until he sucks at her pulse, hard enough to bruise, to mark her. Ursa clutches the hilt. The dull bite of pain is buried beneath the more pressing pleasure. When he pries the knife from her hold a mirror of the filigree is etched across her palm.

The blade is not sharp but she feels the pressure, the gentle prick as he sets the tip against her belly, pressing through the fabric of her robe. Ursa refuses to shift, holds his gaze when he leans back to inspect her face. With his free hand, he strokes her cheek, “I’ve killed for smaller incursions, little dove.”

“Could you kill me, Ozai?” 

It’s a breathy question, softer than she intends. He hums, dragging the blade upward, tickling, teasing, more gentle and more deft than she would have given him credit. Ozai stops at her breasts, the tip resting against her sternum. The pressure is never enough to hurt. If she took shallow breaths, she could avoid its bite entirely. Ursa refuses. The gold of her husband’s eyes, that violent color she can only associate with him, flares, loving and loathing her spirit.

She reaches up, curling her fingers along the blade. She feels heat and then wetness as it breaks flesh. She draws the knife away and Ozai follows. His attention is fixated on her hand. The weapon clatters uselessly to the floor. He grasps her wrist instead, inspecting the damage.

It’s barely a scratch; she bites her lip when he leans in, his breath ghosting across her flesh. Her husband gathers each droplet with his tongue, licking her clean, cauterizing the wound as he goes. There’s blood smeared across his teeth when he finally lifts his head, smirking at her, “No. I don’t know that I could.”

He kisses her and she tastes blood.

The next morning, he clears a place for her at his desk.  
____

They work well together.

Ozai is clinical in his approach, and (somehow equally) wild and efficient, but he lacks his brother’s effortless charm. And that is where his bride excels. Ursa, with her lovely face, with her soothing voice. The court prefers his wife’s company to his own and he is more than willing to cede that power to her.

Ursa winds her arms around his neck, her chin resting comfortably on the crown of his skull. An invitation sits in front of him on the desk, unread. From the first line, he’d recognized its tedium. She reaches over him, no doubt to pluck up the letter, and he catches her hand. Her nails are longer, filed almost to knife point. He knows from experience that, provided the right stimuli, she can break skin.

“Another daughter for the Yen family,” she mumbles. “We should send them a gift.”

He tugs on her hand, just hard enough to drag her around to the other side of his seat. Ursa rolls her eyes but refuses to make even the token show of protest as he settles her on his lap. “The Yen’s are one of my father’s more stalwart supporters.”

“And?” she nips at his jaw, her right hand finding its ways inside his robe.

“You’ve taken tea with Lady Lianshi and Lady Wu already this month. Both strict friends of the royal family,” there is a freedom in speaking to her like this, all his ambitions laid bare, “We must be cautious, Ursa. My Father will not tolerate any attempts to undermine his alliances.”

“Then we say we are solidifying them. Renewing old partnerships.”

Caution looks strange, out of place, on his handsome features. He takes her face in his hands, a grave quality coloring his tone, “Send the Yen’s a gift. After that, no more. Let my father keep the old families.” 

They will shape their own world.  
____

Ozai never touches her in public. 

Part of it is owed to whatever petty sibling rivalry exists between the Princes. Iroh is a monumental flirt and Ozai is resolved to escape that stigma. At times, if they are lost among a particularly heavy crowd, he will set a hand at the curve of her arm, leading her, but it is passionless. 

The rest, she supposes, is political convenience. If she lacks any perceived value his enemies cannot utilize her against him. It is efficient, if callous. 

There are whispers about his supposed indifference from the start. Some suggest they despise one another, that the “convenience” of the marriage has proven too costly. There are rumors of his infidelity and her own. They are quiet at first. 

They are deafening now. 

Ursa stands on their balcony, the evening wind tugging at her hair. The air is too cool for comfort and she welcomes its bite. Her grip on the railing is tight enough to leave her white knuckled. The princess is hurt; she is furious. She is alone. Ursa presses one hand over her empty womb, digging her nails into the flesh. 

Two years together, most nights spent in the other’s company, and still she is without child. To her surprise, Ozai never comments on the matter. In truth, he is flatly disinterested, made only more obstinate by his Father’s insistent reminders. He listens (very unlike the Prince) as she rages, holds her when she eventually exhausts her fury. Her husband will drag fingers through her hair (his touch unskilled, lacking his trademark confidence, his grace) and insist these things are of no concern. She is the granddaughter of Roku and he a child of Sozin. They are fire incarnate. 

And one day, he mumbles, the words hot against her cheek, his palm flat against her belly, she will conceive. She had promised him. She will be purely beautiful, growing heavy with their child. 

She had rolled her eyes, pushing at his shoulder, “Idiot man.” 

Ozai would strike anyone else for the blatant insubordination. Or kill them. But he allows her these little indecencies, chuckling and gathering her back in his arms, “Never listen to the court, Ursa. They are beneath us.” 

Us.

It is strange how such a simple turn of phrase manages to warm her. Ursa sighs, staring out towards the horizon. She turns when she hears the sound of bare feet on the tile, just in time to catch her husband straggling back to their chambers. His usually immaculate hair is matted against his neck and back, drenched with sweat.

Training again. His already strenuous routine is more intense now than ever. He works himself to exhaustion more often than she’d like, returns to her with fresh bruises dotting his knuckles, his shoulders. As if he can overcome nearly twenty years of experience through sheer force of will.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says, toweling himself off as he crosses to stand beside her. The scent of ash hangs around him, bleeds into the more human sweat. For as much as his training worries her, she finds she enjoys his company after. He is languid, more himself and not the Prince, buried beneath his royal duties.

She nods. He reaches out, touching her shoulder without comment. Words are often extraneous between them. She speaks without turning, “Azulon asked after us today.” Ozai stiffens beside her. The words taste like poison but she forces them out, digs her nails into the railing, “The Firelord wonders when you will finally get me with child. Or if you are incapable of even that simple task.”

The temperature flares around them. Her husband turns, following the line of her gaze down into the courtyard. She does not need to look at him to know his jaw is clenched, shoulders pulled tight, “He said that to you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Lady Lianshi is pregnant again. This will be her fifth,” she purses her lips, scrubbing one hand up her bicep. She wishes he would hold her. If nothing else it would combat the hollow feeling in her chest, “I imagine it was meant to motivate me.”

“I see.” She has never feared her husband. But there are moments, fleeting interactions, that leave her wary of him. Ozai’s eyes are narrowed to thin slits, his mouth curled in a severe frown. When she reaches for him, he shakes his head, stepping back, “Excuse me, Ursa.”

She knows better than to try and stop him.  
___

Lady Lianshi disappears from court the next week. There are whispers. In Azulon’s court there are always whispers. Ursa keeps her expression neutral as the other women bandy about their gossip, sipping spiced wine.

The rumors suggested that, not one, but three, of the woman’s children were bastards. Lianshi had been particularly fond of one of her bodyguards and things had spiraled from there.

“Such disgraceful behavior,” one of the older women tuts, shaking her head. Ursa does not know her name; she does remember hearing her particularly glowing praise of Lianshi not a day before the scandal broke. “The girl is lucky she was sent away and not executed.”

“Yes,” Ursa searches the crowd. Ozai is leaning against the far wall, pretending to listen to whatever conversation he’s been press ganged into. Her husband is already staring at her, his lips curled in a particularly vicious smirk. She drops her gaze, “Very lucky indeed.”  
___

Iroh comes to visit. The war often keeps him away from home but she enjoys these interludes. She knows there is no love lost between the princes (and the blame falls squarely on her husband). Still, they seem to gravitate towards one another. At some point in their lives they had been friendly. Those bonds were difficult to sever.

Today it’s pai sho. It is a standing bargain between the brothers: Ozai will agree to pai sho if Iroh does not address the war. That the crown prince continues to distinguish himself on the battlefield while his younger brother is left safely at home, failing to sire an heir, is a source of endless frustration. Ozai is not a talented player. While not a poor strategist, and undeniably cunning, he is impetuous, more likely to rely on brute force than tact. Dangerous, when playing a master like Iroh. 

Iroh shifts the white lotus tile forward, “Lu Ten said you took him into town last week, sister.” 

She nods, “He’s blessed with his father’s charm. He asked and I just,” she shrugs, observing her own section of the board with an absent smile. “Couldn’t resist.” 

“He is very fond of you.”

Ozai throws her an arch look and she fight to keep from laughing. She sets one hand on his knee, “Thank you, brother.” 

“If you’re both finished. We have a game to play,” Ozai’s voice is flat. He leans back in his seat, assuming a disinterested air. His gaze keeps flicking to her pieces, waiting for her to put their plan into motion. More often than not, she’s invited to join their games. Iroh prefers the challenge and Ozai prefers a mediator between himself and the Crown Prince.

“Baby brother, how is it you have not yet taken this beautiful young lady to Ember Island?” Iroh smirks, turning to tip her a wink. Ozai does not handle distractions well. She squeezes his thigh.

“I’ve been busy.” 

“You can never be too busy for Ember Island. Sand, sun, the theater,” his sentence drifts off with a longing sigh, shaking his head. “Just thinking about it is enough to relax a man.” 

She smirks, “Ozai hates the theater.” 

Her husband looks at her with such fury and betrayal that she can’t help but laugh, the sound mixing pleasantly with Iroh’s chuckles. The Crown prince touches the curve of her elbow, lowering his voice as if in conspiracy, “Ah, but he enjoys the company of attractive young women. Even my baby brother can feign interest for so noble a cause.” 

Being away from the palace, from the gossip, from the constant intrigue appeals to her in a way she would not have anticipated. She enjoys the great game, she will not deny that. But it is exhausting. 

And she hates seeing what it does to her husband. 

The game continues in silence. She moves her pieces to compliment Ozai’s, shoring up his defenses when he overextends. Iroh is often good enough to best them both. Tonight, they are beating him back, purely in sync. Iroh hums, observing them, “You are an excellent team.”

Ozai does not bother to hide his satisfaction, leaning over to press a kiss to her cheek. “I know my wife's mind,” he says, and there's a clear pride in his voice. Not over the depth of their connection, not over the fondness it suggests, but over the authority it grants him.

“And I know my husband’s.”

It is a two edged sword because she also knows what must come next. Ozai waits, less subtle than he imagines, for the tide of the battle to shift in their favor. And, when that moment comes, he will turn on her.

There can only be one victor, after all.

Ozai will do everything to guarantee it's him.  
____

They spend the next month on Ember Island.

She feels more alive outside the palace walls. The sea air is pure, tugging at her hair, cooling her damp skin. Waves lap at her feet. Somewhere above them, a gull cries. On the otherwise empty beach, the sound is mournful. She is younger here, unburdened by her titles, her life. 

“Iroh is an old fool,” his voice eases her out of her reverie, lighter than she’s become accustomed. She doesn’t need to look to know he’s smiling, feels the weight of his gaze on her, “But I am...grateful for his suggestion.” 

He’s more expressive here, more companionable. It’s an almost visible change, a weight lifted off his shoulders. Ozai turns his face up, the breeze catching in his hair. He nearly preens when he catches her staring, tracing the strong line of his jaw, the muscles in his chest, his stomach. She rolls her eyes, “Perhaps you should thank him.” 

“Perhaps the Earth Kingdom will sign Ba Sing Se over to my father.” 

She snickers, giving him a shove. He never goes far, just enough to humor her, his expression fond. Invariably, his arm will come around her waist, drawing her back to his chest. It is a practiced dance. She has yet to tire of it. She’s unsure she ever will. Ursa tucks her nose in the hollow of his throat, inhaling the scent of him. The sunlight is warm on her back and he is scorching and she cannot imagine a more perfect evening. Fingers trace the line of her spine, toying with the material of her top. 

She leans back, arching a brow. Ozai smirks, unperturbed, pulling until the fabric gives way. There’s such a note of youthful satisfaction playing across his features that she can’t find it in herself to feel angry. She laughs instead, squirming, her revenge manifesting in his low, needy groan. When he steps away, his eyes are dark with hunger. He tips his head towards the beach house, “Run, princess.” 

“Run?” 

“I'll allow you ten seconds. In the spirit of fair play."

She smirks, “And after that?” 

“I’ll have my way with you. Wherever you end up.” As if to make his point, he holds up one finger, then another. Ursa spares a glance towards the house. 

The princess turns and sprints towards the shore.  
____

Years later, alone in a foreign country, Ursa will reflect on this moment. Despite everything that has happened between them, she will regard it with no small degree of fondness, the dull ache of nostalgia. Eventually, she will laugh, the sound high and sad and perhaps a little bitter at the irony. 

Ozai’s heir, their child of fire, descendent of Sozin and Roku, is conceived beside the sea.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Zuko is born far too early. Ursa's labor is long and violent, nearly costing the princess her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anything that could go wrong with this chapter did. It was surprising. Until I remembered that this chapter is about Zuko and Zuko is a Disappointment and Ruins Everything. I get it now, guys. I get why Ozai is not a fan.

Her first pregnancy is not easy.

The midwife claims she will acclimate in time, that her body is in the first steps of crucial change. Ursa is not so certain. She frowns, eyeing her reflection in the mirror. Like all women, she has her vanities. She is proud of her hair, dark and lustrous as it tumbles of her shoulders. She is proud of her figure, nearly willowy. Pregnancy has been the death of that. There are dark bags rimming her eyes, a brittle quality to her hair. She feels swollen and miserable. They are petty concerns but she feels them weighing heavily on her psyche. She pivots on her heel, observing herself from a new angle. It is not an improvement.

These past few months have seen her beginning to fill out, her breasts heavier, her stomach gently swollen. She traces the rise of her belly with one nail. Their child is still small and yet it has seen fit to transform her, to leave her ill every morning. She’s tired more often than not; her moods swing violently from rage to euphoria to depression.

It is like being a stranger in her own body.

The babe kicks, startling out of her self indulgent reverie. The midwife promises it is a good sign. All powerful benders are more active near sunrise. Her little one is no different. The princess shakes her head, her hands dropping to cover her belly on instinct, protective, comforting. Ursa smiles, tilting her head to the side, “I suppose you wouldn’t be your father’s child if you didn’t give me at least a little difficulty.”

“Disparaging me already?”

Her husband is not displeased. There’s something low coloring the words but it’s a purr more than anything, as near as the Prince will come to teasing. He arches a brow when she turns, sun kissed and healthy, singularly handsome. In her darker moments, she will admit she has envied the lightness of his form. The new weight means she does not fit so comfortably against his side at night. Ozai is perfect, lean; accompanying him to court recently has left her feeling...self conscious. 

These are not the sort of things he notices and so she pushes her fears to the back of her mind. Ozai is fresh from the bath, naked and unashamed, his skin still damp. The familiar sight is still enough to elicit a violent pang of want. The hormones have only made these urges more frequent. The princess allows herself a frustrated groan, turning away from him.

Ozai knows. He knows the direction of her tastes, knows the best way to use them to his advantage. He has the decency to chuckle, scrubbing one hand across the back of his neck before he crosses to her. The low rumble of his voice chases through her chest as his arms come around her, hugging her back against his blessedly solid form.

He meets her eyes in the mirror. For once, he’s smiling, the expression oddly gentle. It is not a word she applies to her husband lightly. As much as she will hesitate to admit it (and he will vehemently deny being so influenced), pregnancy is changing Ozai as well. He will surprise her from time to time, little excitements, little shifts in his demeanor. He keeps her nearer to his side when they go out together, his hand a constant presence at the small of her back. He will gaze at her with naked hunger. His touch will linger over the curve of her belly, proud of this being they have created together. It is innocent, in practice, and worries her in theory. 

Ozai has never had anything to call his own, aside from Ursa herself. Their child will be his. To raise, to shape, to influence. She worries how he will utilize that power. 

Some moments, it feels as if he might allow himself to hope, to step out from beneath the weight of his role and exist as himself, unburdened by expectation. Some moments, she sees the hints of a man who might be a passable father. Ozai hums, his breath tickling across her skin, fitting himself against her more tightly. Her husband’s warmth is soothing. Ursa sighs, pleased, craning her neck to make way for the questing path of his lips. “You are both well this morning?

She huffs, “Now that there’s nothing left in my stomach, yes.”

“You’re growing a little tyrant inside you, Ursa,” she feels his smile and rolls her eyes, shifting back against him. Ozai’s hand settles over her belly. There is a strange power in his touch; the babe, no matter how restless, always seems to settle in its father’s presence.

“I wonder how that could be.”

“Some mysteries are best left unsolved.” His smirk is wolfish, the lazy roll of his shoulders unrepentant.

She loves these moments, soft, disconnected from their lives as a whole. Ozai mumbles to their child, pointless drivel, ambition and comfort, seamlessly intertwined. Their heir will be a powerful bender, a tribute to their family name. They will be born healthy; they will stop tormenting their mother. It’s the last bit that make her chuckle, turning in the circle of his arms, “And you, my love? How are you?”

Some days it’s impossible to read him. There’s a naturally stoic quality to his face. The eyes are what give him away. There’s a weariness in them. He chooses to ignore the question, “The physician says the child is progressing well.”

She paints on a smile, tells herself it’s stress. Ozai has never been particularly forthcoming with his emotions. It is foolish to expect that to change, “Yes. Yes, very healthy.”

“And the morning sickness?”

She tosses her head, “I think you know how well that’s…progressing.”

He nods, looking grave and handsome. She reaches up, threading her fingers through his still damp hair. There are some points where it is better to drift into silence. Ursa scratches her nails across his scalp, watching as the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. He clutches her to his chest.

She inhales the scent of him. For a moment, the stress feels further away.  
____

Ozai is dreaming.

He’s unsure when exactly he drifted off. He’d been stuck in the office reading missives until late in the evening. By the time he crawls into bed, Ursa is already asleep, the blankets kicked down around her knees, pregnancy leaving her sleeping patterns increasing erratic. The mottled patchwork of bruises dotted across his shins are a testament to this fact.

She is uncomfortable, she says, throwing him an arch look, growing increasingly more so by the day. Almost overnight, the gentle swell of her stomach, hidden by the heavy fabric of her robes, is impossible to miss. He marks each of these changes, softly fascinated. Pregnancy is new to him. He had been too young to show much interest in his sister in law’s condition when she was heavy with Lu Ten. He tucks the duvet around his bride more securely, settling in behind her. It is the best way to mitigate the damage. The heavy arm across her hip acts as a restraint during the night. 

And their child preferred his proximity. Ursa promises as much day in, day out. She calls him to her side when their little one is particularly disruptive, grabbing for his hand. The babe seems to shiver when he brushes the backs of his fingers across her skin, shifting nearer, as is searching out his heat. Ursa’s temperature is notably cooler, even compared to the weakest of firebenders. He wonders if the babe is too chill. 

Ozai does not mention this, hiding a half smile behind his hand. Their child (their son, and she insists on this) will be a powerful bender. There is no other way to explain the constant sheen of sweat on his wife’s skin, the perpetual fever. It leaves her mood...sour. 

As the months wear on and the birth grows imminent, he allows himself hope, excitement. He is a distant man, surly, cold by nature, but the notion of a child, his child, is fascinating. They will have created life, a perfect joining between himself and the woman he loves…

It is...ripe with potential. 

During those months, he sleeps more easily. He dreams of the throne, his family, beautiful and strong.

He feels a disconnect between his mind and body, free-floating in the darkness. It’s a little like being drunk, he thinks, a hazy quality coloring the dream. Details from the outside world bleed across the veil. He can make out the even patter of rain on tile, the heat of his wife’s body. A rocking motion and something sharp digging into his shoulder.

And a voice. Very far away but…urgent…

“Ozai!” The word he’s looking for is panic. He blinks awake, still groggy, and Ursa is staring down at him. He has never seen her look truly frightened. Ursa’s gold eyes are wide, terrified in the evening light, her hand clutched protectively over her belly. She makes some low, miserable sound, originating deep in her throat. Her hands are shaking badly.

Ozai jerks into a sitting position, one arm snaking around her for support. Sweat is beaded across her forehead, the thin material of her nightgown plastered to her skin. There is a hazy quality to her eyes that he hates, barely aware as she doubles over, gasping for breath.

The particular tang of iron hangs on the air, pervasive. Ursa lets out another hiss of breath, her nails digging into his shoulder hard enough to break skin. Her chin drops towards her chest, struggling to breathe through the pain. She shakes her head, voice barely above a whisper, “It’s too early.”

He’s moving before he can think better of it, crouched by her side of the bed. The Prince eases the soiled sheets away from her, the mix of blood and amniotic fluid leaving her skin tacky. A primal fear coils in the back of his mind, a whisper he has kept tamped down these past few months.

Royal births were violent, weren’t they? They’d cost Iroh his bride. They’d claimed Ilah.

He hooks one arm beneath her knee, the other wrapping around her, gathering her to his chest. She’s so thin, too delicate. His bride turns her face into his shoulder, managing to loop her arms around his neck, “Ursa. Speak to me.”

The words are slurred, with sleep or with fever, a low, poisonous, mantra, “He’s too early, husband…”

He manages a laugh, the sound high (mad), rasping against the crown of her skull, “Promptness is an excellent quality in a prince.” Ozai kneels, reaching out with one hand, searching. He catches the fabric of a robe, his or hers, and yanks until it comes free. He drapes it over her. “The nursery is finished?" She nods, biting down on her lower lip. It’s all the impetus he needs. Ozai pushes into the hall, his voice echoing through the empty corridors, “Guards! Fetch me the physician.”

For a moment, there is silence. Booted feet follow, a young woman crashing around the corner. Her eyes are bright, “Prince Ozai?”

Ursa lets out a sharp cry, the volume making him wince. He adjusts his hold on her, fixing the soldier with a hard stare, “Send for the midwife. The physician, too.”

“My lord...the hour…”

“Wake them. Send a hawk, search the city!”

The sharpness in his voice seems to jolt the girl back to awareness. She nods, darting off into the night with an enviable grace. He spares her no more than a passing thought. The nursery is...some distance, further from their personal chambers than Ursa ever wanted. He clutches her more tightly, relieved to hear her chuckle, weak as it is, “Any tighter and you’ll crush us, dear.” He feels her eyes on him, staring. She tugs on a piece of his hair, “Ozai. We’ll be alright.”

“You will,” something in his tone seems to shock her. Ursa nods, mutely, before letting her head loll back against his chest, wincing only once as he winds through the palace. His steps are sure and focused, gold eyes blazing in the dark. His wife would live. His child would live. 

He will not consider the alternatives.  
____

He sits with her until help arrives, snarling at any guards unfortunate enough to stumble across their path. Ursa clings to him, biting down on her lip. Bloods wells to the surface as the contractions wrack her body. She is a daughter of fire; she will not let him see her weak, hurting. Ozai turns his face into her hair, seething. He is furious, impotent; he wants to fight and kill, to help. All he can do is hold her. Ursa clutches his hand hard enough for the bones to protest, the pain sharp, violent. He hold her to his chest and she rakes rails down the planes of his back, hard enough to break skin. 

Royal births were violent, destructive. A mortal woman, bringing a dragon into the world…

After what seems like an eternity, help finally arrives. He uncoils himself from around his bride, striding across the nursery to meet them, a rebuke on his tongue. The midwife stares at him with hard eyes, unphased by the manic energy clinging to him. She nods to the girls flanking her and they move in practiced unison, settling on either side of the Princess. 

“You will save her, woman. Is that clear?” It’s a low growl, dangerous, coiled. 

“We will do what we can, my prince.” Ursa screams. The midwife catches his arm before he can turn, “You must wait outside, Prince Ozai. As is tradition.” 

“Tradition?” He chokes on the word, “I will not…” 

“You will,” her wizened face is frighteningly calm. She sets her hands against his chest and shoves. There’s very little strength behind the motion but it shocks him enough to step back. It is all the opportunity she needs to slam the doors in his face.

Her labor is long and arduous. 

Ozai is left alone, nothing to do but pace. He lashes out at the servants, demanding answers they cannot provide. One young woman leaves the room with an armful of bloody cloths, her eyes downcast. It is enough to leave him seeing red. The second prince is on his feet in an instant, fire licking around his fists. Iroh is forced to physically restrain him.

“Baby brother,” Iroh is far shorter, his fondness for tea and pastries leaving him slightly rotund, but there is a strength in the stoutness of his form. Hands clutch his forearms, shaking him once. Then, softer, “Ozai. You must remain calm. This is a natural part of life.”

Ursa is screaming, choked sobs carrying through the door and he can barely think through his anger.

“Ozai,” his brother’s voice makes it through the haze, his face kind, understanding. “Take a deep breath.”

“She could be dying.”

Iroh steps back, one brow arched, “Are you a physician, Ozai?”

He glares, lips curling back in a snarl, “What does that have to do with anything?”

“If Ursa was dying, and Agni, I pray she is not, what would your presence change?” the Crown Prince holds up one hand, cutting off his response before it’s tripped off his tongue. “Nothing. You would only make yourself a nuisance, inconveniencing the people who might save your bride.”

Ozai smashes one palm against the nursery doors. It’s a childish display but it helps him feel less impotent. The second born prince frowns, “I am...unaccustomed to this.”

“It is the most frightening thing in the world. You are powerless to help the one you love most.” Iroh squeezes his shoulder, “It does not make you weak, however. You are stronger for this connection.” He allows his brother to lead him to one of the benches, exhaustion and anger leaving his mind cloudy. Ozai drags a hand over his face, sighing, glaring at the doors. They remain obstinately shut.

He drapes his hands over his knees, focusing on evening out his breathing. Every time he gets close, Ursa lets out some miserable sound. He inclines his head, focusing on Iroh. The older man is smiling, a soft nostalgia, a grief, coloring the expression. Ozai swallows, “It was like this when Lu Ten was born?”

“Yes,” the sadness is heavier, hanging off his shoulders like a weight. For once, he finds no joy in his brother’s sullen spirits. Ozai reaches over, clasping the Crown’s Princes shoulder. “I cannot say your feelings are not well founded, Ozai. I can only suggest you manage them. You did well, getting her here. Now you must put your faith in Ursa. And the Spirits.”

He scoffs, “The Spirits.”

His brother winks, “A little insurance never hurt.”

Despite himself, Ozai chuckles.  
_____

The child does not breathe. Ursa is too weak, from labor, from blood loss, to so much as lift her head, but the words register in her addled brain, a purely maternal fear clutching her heart. He’s too early. He’s been born far, far too early…

Aftershocks of pain, still violent, wrack her system. Her body is spent, face slick with sweat and tears. She cries out to the Spirits, for her husband…

Neither answer.

Ursa manages to catch the midwife’s hand, “My child…”

The old woman’s grip is strong, stronger than any woman her age should manage, a steel in her voice as she kneels beside the bed, “We’ll do all we can for him, Princess. All we can…”

“Ozai…”

She snorts. In any other circumstance, the naked derision would be enough to leave Ursa laughing. She can’t find the energy for anything more than a half smile, “Still pounding at the doors, I imagine. Spirits rest Lady Ilah. She might have blessed her second son with a good deal more sense before she passed. Fool boy was ready to burn the nursery.”

“He’s...protective.”

Her expression remains flat, “That’ll be one word for it.” The midwife squeezes her hand a final time, turning her attention back to the rest of the staff, huddled near the back of the room, “Rest now, princess.”

She wants to protest. To demand they bring the babe to her.

All she can do is sag back against the pillows. She manages half a prayer before losing consciousness. Through the haze, she can just make out the sound of her newborn’s cries.  
_____

The midwife emerges just after dawn, her face worn but...happy. Ozai is on his feet with more haste than is likely tolerable in a man of his stature. Behind him, Iroh chuckles, squeezing his bicep. For once, he has no sage wisdom to impart, no grand revelation. Just...a soft pride. 

“You survived the night, baby brother.”

Ozai ignores him, “The Princess?”

“Princess Ursa will live. The poor thing will be weak for some time but...she’ll live.”

“And the child?”

The midwife regards him, her eyes carefully narrowed. There is something he does not like in that look, as if the woman is weighing him, finds him lacking. Ozai stands straighter, his posture squaring. Let her look. He is an heir of fire. Her gaze flicks over to Iroh, “A son has been born to you, Prince Ozai.” She tips her head to the side, the curtain of white hair more wild after hours of exertion, “If nothing else, he is blessed with his father’s tenacity.”

A son. Ursa has kept her word. He feels a swell of pride, starts towards the nursery. The midwife moves to block his path. Ozai glares, “Move aside. Your part in this is over. Summon the Sages if you would like to make yourself useful.”

“No,” he shocks at the dismissal. There is no mirth on her face, no hint of mischief. Her wizened features are hard, “The boy is weak, ripped from the womb too early. My prince, if you have any consideration, for your wife or this child, you will delay the visitation. Let the boy kindle his spark.”

“She is right, brother,” Iroh shifts to stand between himself and the midwife. He speaks slowly, as if willing him to understand, “An early ruling may prove unjustly harsh.”

“He will have to prove himself sooner or later.”

Iroh presses his palm flat against his chest. It is a familiar gesture from their childhood. At one point, it had been a source of great comfort, an almost paternal affection which had been sorely lacking in his life. Now, it feels like judgement. He shakes off the contact, “Then let it be later. For your own sake if nothing else. Do you wish to bring news of failure before our father? The Fire Lord is not a generous man.” 

He scowls, glancing between the two of them. There is a low throbbing in his head, the start of a migraine. He pinches the bridge of his nose, “I will delay the visitation.” The midwife seems to relax, “Now. Step aside. I would see my wife.” And his son.

“Let them rest, Prince.” 

“Move, woman.”

Iroh again, and the latent fury is given new life, “I believe what my brother intends to say is: thank you. For preserving his beloved bride and his young family.” 

He grits his teeth, “Yes.”

“Besides. You could use some sleep yourself, Ozai. Look at you,” the Crown Prince shakes his head, chuckling fondly. Ozai turns his head in time to miss the pass of his hand. He’d always used to tug on his hair. Always. “Such a mess. Princess Ursa would not even recognize you.” 

Ozai grumbles, arms crossed over his chest, “Ursa would always know my face.” 

“Yes, but better to charm her than give her a fright! Your hair all wild,” Iroh shakes his head, turning back to the midwife, “I will see the Prince to his chambers myself.”

There is no point in fighting. The world is against him. He is not stupid enough to challenge his brother. He pushes the bitter taste in his mouth down and away, throwing a final look towards the nursery door. It is...likely wise. He will rest, a few hours at most, and then he will return to his family. Agni himself will not keep him from that.

They make the long walk in silence. Ozai allows his mind to wander. They are...comfortable fantasies.

Iroh comes to an abrupt halt, the grip on his elbow tightening enough to jerk him back to reality. His father’s elite guard are waiting outside his chambers. The Crown Prince steps forward, his voice gentle, “You must let the prince sleep, surely. This has been a trying time. The Fire Lord…” 

Ozai grips his shoulder, “Does not wait, Iroh.”

His plans fall away, ash in the wind.  
_____

He has come to loathe the throne room over the years. For all its beauty for the intricacies of its décor and its histories, it has become synonymous with his various failures, with disappointment, with his Father. Ozai purses his lips, hands linked at the small of his back. Outside, the air remains cool, tinged with early morning dew. Here, it is sweltering.

His father desires an explanation. For what, he cannot say. The Fire Lord makes an idle motion with his hands, dismissing the guards, leaving them alone. He sorts through the evening, attempts to pinpoint what might have prompted this audience. His...urgency, perhaps. Azulon waits. 

“You wished for a mingling of the bloodlines, father,” Ozai keeps his eyes low, never looking at the throne. The flames remain even, crackling merrily in the otherwise dim chamber. At any moment they might spring to life and devour him. Azulon was mercurial in his old age. “If Ursa had died, if the child had died, everything you have worked for would be lost.”

“You believe this justifies your behavior?” The Fire Lord scoffs, the sound lapsing into a rasping cough. The winter months were growing more difficult to weather, the excess moisture in the air playing havoc with his lungs. “Crashing through the halls in the dead of night, screaming like a babe for its mother?”

“She might have died.”

“The midwife would have found you, boy, but instead you toted Roku’s spawn about my palace,” there’s a wash of heat. Ozai focuses on keeping his expression neutral, his posture slack. Any emotion, positive or negative, would justify the man’s outrage. “You were reckless. Your brother displayed a far steadier hand when his son…”

“Iroh showed restraint, father,” he lifts his head, lips pressed to a tight line. There are crescents emblazoned across his palms, points where his nails have bit into his skin. He regrets the words even as he speaks, “The price was steep.”

The princess had died in her chambers, the sheets soaked with blood. She had always been a frail woman but…the harshness of her labor had surprised even their most seasoned physicians. They had arrived too late to save the princess.

Azulon glares. His father is not a handsome man, every one of his features comically exaggerated, from the wide, thin mouth, to the elongated quality of his face. Grey hair hangs in ratty strands about his shoulders. In the firelight, he is…

A disgrace to their noble blood. Ozai holds his gaze. The Fire Lord speaks first, his voice cold but strikingly even, “In light of today’s circumstance, Prince Ozai, I will grant clemency for that remark.” He threads his fingers together, shaking his head, “If nothing else, you have produced an heir. I was beginning to question your competency.”

He almost laughs. Beginning, as if the man hadn’t made up his mind the moment Ozai drew his first breath, “The first of many, father.”

“I will believe that when the proof is set before me,” he makes an idle gesture with his hand and the audience is over. Ozai bows his head. For all his talk on clemency, the second son knows he should expect reprisal. His work load for these next few months will be particularly unforgiving. As soon as he is free of the throne room, he rakes a hand through his hair, the true depth of his exhaustion catching up with him.

He wants to fall into a deep sleep. Curled beside his wife, perhaps. She is a weakness, he is not stupid enough to ignore this truth, but…he sees no immediate way of rectifying the situation. It is better to embrace the comfort she provides. He stops a servant before they can pass. The girl stares up at him with wide eyes, the deep, earthy, color suggesting mixed blood somewhere in her parentage, “Where is Princess Ursa?”

She dips her head, speaking to the floor, “The nursery still, my prince. The physician does not wish to move her so soon after…” she glances up at his face and blanches, irritation radiating off of him. 

“After…everything.”

He can feel the start of a headache, “Tell the kitchen to prepare a meal. Bring it to the nursery once it’s finished.”

“As you say, Prince Ozai.”

The girl fumbles through a curtsy before rushing off down one of the corridors. The wrong one, he notes with an indulgent smile, shaking his head. Ozai lets his feet lead him, sleep deprivation and stress making the journey halfway dreamy. Everything is still…surreal.

The second born prince has never felt the sting of reservation but it manifests now, a hesitance as he stands before the double doors. He is a father. Ursa promises he will grow into the role, her features soft, understanding as she strokes his cheek. He is less sure.

Iroh was meant to raise sons. Ozai…

He is less certain. He squares his jaw, pushing into the nursery. Compared to most of the palace it is a simple room, comfortable. The colors are softer than he recalls, meant to soothe rather than intimidate.  
His wife is propped up on a too narrow bed, dark hair hanging around her face, frizzy from sweat. Dark bags rim her eyes and her skin has almost tacky quality to it. In the years they have known each other, he has never seen his bride even half so disheveled.

The sight, more than any other, stops him. Ozai frowns, observing her more carefully. She is…objectively less attractive than normal and yet. He finds her striking, rarely beautiful, as she lifts her head, smiling at him. It’s barely a quirk in the right corner of her lips, all she can manage after her trying labor.

“Beautiful,” he mumbles, closing the doors behind him. Ursa chuckles, shaking her head.

“You must be sleep deprived, dear.”

“I speak as I find,” he crosses to her, regarding the bundle in her arms with more reservation. “Where are the servants?” 

“I dismissed them,” their son coos, shifting in his swaddling, pressing nearer to his mother’s breast. She glances up, her eyes exhausted but bright, “Stop loitering near the door, Ozai. No one is going to chase you out.” 

“The past few hours prove otherwise.” 

She rolls her eyes, “Come here. Hold your son.” 

Ozai approaches them with renewed caution. His wife shifts (wincing at even the slightest movement) to make room for him on the too narrow bed. It is a tight fit. She is left half draped across him, his left arm curled around her waist. Ursa adjusts herself so that he might better see their child. 

Their son...is a strange creature. His face is a violent shade of red, still pinched, the little nose screwed up as he yawns. He turns his head to the side, staring up at his parents in naked wonderment, his eyes the same brilliant shade of gold as Ozai’s own. His scalp is covered with a fine dusting of black fuzz. Tentatively, he reaches out, stroking the backs of his fingers across the crown of the boy’s head. 

“He’s small…” 

She huffs, narrowing her eyes, “He was large enough, dear. Believe me.” The Prince chuckles, “Would you like to hold him?” 

He shakes his head, “This is enough for now.” He presses his palm flat over his son’s chest. The child is achingly small, delicate. The weight seems to surprise him. He makes a small sound, squirming, before he settles. The gold eyes are surprisingly intelligent, discerning, flicking from his face to Ursa’s. Content, they flutter once, twice, before drifting shut. Ozai turns, hesitating before pressing his lips to his bride’s forehead. A hint of salt colors her skin, “Ursa...I am...grateful. Thank you.” 

She stares at him for a moment, softly confused, before she nods, her expression fond. Ursa reaches up, stroking his cheek, drawing him to her for a chaste kiss. 

They remain like that for a time. Ursa drifts against his side, and he watches their son, cataloguing the details of his face. He notes, with a father’s certainty, that he will be a handsome boy. A true Prince of the Fire Nation. 

It is a good thought, one that eventually chases him off to sleep.


End file.
